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Paul didn’t feel like eating much anymore.
He tried to, for her, for Emma, for the one good thing, the only good thing he had left, but it was hard. He looked at his plate, at his food, and something inside of him curled up in revulsion. She didn’t feed him much while he stayed with her, and what she offered, Paul had despised.
Sometimes, when he had misbehaved, she hadn’t let him eat at all.
By all means, Paul should have been elated to have free reign over what he chose to eat. And yet, he could barely finish a bowl of cereal without feeling as though he was going to hurl. Food felt rubbery and sticky on his teeth, every taste the same identical, foul sort of sourness he had grown quite familiar with over the last few days. His mouth was dry when he swallowed, his jaw moved mechanically as he chewed, and the feeling of something finally sliding down his throat and away from his tongue was relieving and disgusting all at once.
He still got hungry, of course he did. It was the sort of ache that was impossible to ignore, lying in wait constantly and bubbling up in protest at times he couldn’t control or decide. His stomach growled at him frequently, and he found himself curling in on himself to stifle it most nights. And yet, he grew almost accustomed to the sensation of aching emptiness. It was incessant but it was familiar , it was a distraction from the mindless buzz inside of his head (the one that sounded just a little too much like a taser , humming lowly with the promise of inescapable harm). It became a cycle for him to try to eat, then neglect whatever he’d begun and retreat defeatedly back to his bedroom.
She– Mel… She didn’t like it when he spoke, not at all. She didn’t like it when he did anything , really, aside from obey. She tried everything to keep him compliant. From the agony of a thousand bolts piercing through him to the crushing loneliness of being locked up in the dark while she worked (he hated her, he hated her so, so much but he couldn’t be alone, not when the walls were closing in and he couldn’t breathe , he was terrified and hungry and alone). From dragging him around by the neck to mutilating Ted in front of him (his fault his fault his fault, if he hadn’t tried to leave then Ted would have been alive, it should have been him ).
From withholding his food (it was a punishment, one he got for trying to leave, for trying to speak, for trying to be a human being because she didn’t want him to be one, she wanted him mindless and dependent and obedient , obedient above all else because then nothing would go wrong, would it, he’d be the kitty she’d always wanted and she wouldn’t have to keep hurting him, she didn’t want to do this but he made her , it was always his fault, no matter what, he just had to listen for once in his life and submi t–)...
…To rewarding him .
Paul didn’t like to think of the rewards.
He did so nonetheless.
It was supposed to be good, he was supposed to enjoy it. It was a luxury, as Melissa reminded him in low, breathless tones. He should have been grateful. If he acted out, he was punished with the white-hot lash of the taser or the neverending darkness that seeped into his skull. If he behaved, he was rewarded. It was supposed to be good.
Whenever it happened, he wanted to crawl out of his skin.
He felt… He didn’t know how he felt, but he didn’t want to be himself anymore. He didn’t want to be a captive, powerless against the whims of a woman who’d gone insane (a woman he had known, had considered a friend). He didn’t want to be a cat, obedient and docile and pleasant (a pet, something to be cooed at and doted on but never treated as an equal). Hell, he didn’t even want to be Paul Matthews, regular man with an office job who’d acquired a million unwanted, basic fake plants as gifts over the years (Paul Matthews, the colleague, the babysitter, the uncle, the guy who didn’t like musicals, the man who held up the queues at Beanies to talk with a woman he didn’t deserve).
He didn’t want to exist.
Some days, he thought it would be better if he didn’t. His skin itched and prickled, something awful writhing beneath it that he could never get out, even as he scratched his arms raw and sobbed soundlessly for hours. His mind was a blur and yet crystal clear, flashes of memories haunting him in perfect focus, horror and guilt and terror in equal measures ensnaring his heart and squeezing. A pit had formed in his gut; it offered the sort of swooping sensation one might find on a rollercoaster, only infinitely more nauseating. That rollercoaster had gone off the rails, reached the top of the loop de loop and plummeted , keeping Paul suspended in midair, falling forever. Falling, and falling, and falling.
He choked on nothing as phantom hands caressed his skin, they were everywhere. He shuddered but they remained undeterred, a feather-light touch heavier than any hit. She didn’t care how he felt, adamant that it was a reward, that he wanted this. Maybe she knew he didn’t. Paul doubted she’d care either way.
He was in a constant state of juxtaposition. His skin was on fire even as he shivered with the cold. Panic pumped through him perpetually even as a detached numbness settled into his bones. He was far too full and far too empty all at once, he wanted to get away but couldn’t bear being alone, he had no-one left but Melissa whispered she’d never leave him.
Paul had started to believe her, towards the end. The soft reassurance that he could relax around her, there would be no more pain as long as he behaved. And maybe her eyes had been manic, but there was no denying the genuine affection that lay there. And maybe Paul had despised her, maybe he still did, maybe he loathed her more than anyone else, more than words could say, but he’d still craved the scraps of approval she’d tossed him over that week.
A week? Was that really all it had been? It felt like he’d been there for years.
Some days, it felt like he’d never left.
It was funny, in a way, just how close she’d been to ruining him completely. Paul was broken, there was no denying that, but he still had one light left. Emma . Smart, funny, caring, witty, beautiful, perfect Emma. She’d stayed, she’d listened. Despite his fears, she’d stayed , and he appreciated that more than words could say. Emma kept him going.
Of course, M… She had tried to ruin that too, claiming Paul as her own and shattering the easygoing, comfortable look Emma used to have around him. They’d been so relaxed around each other. Now, Emma couldn’t move without Paul flinching, and he couldn’t help but feel she was walking on eggshells around him.
It wasn’t fair. Not on either of them, not on anyone. Melissa had been selfish , more selfish than he ever could have imagined. He hated that she’d hurt Emma, too, stunning, brilliant Emma, whose light had always far outshone his own. She was too good for him, especially now that he was broken, now that that woman had broken him. But Emma stayed, and helped, and cared about him, and held him while he wept just as he held her. Emma was his anchor, his light, his everything . Even after everything, Emma wanted him to stay.
So he did.
Without her, no-one would care if he died. Alice might, but she would move on eventually. She lived in Clivesdale anyway, and Paul wasn’t sure if she’d be allowed to attend his funeral anyway. He and Bill used to be best friends. Now, an accusatory ‘pervert!’ echoed in his ears as he remembered his heart shattering further at the realisation that Bill really didn’t care that he’d been gone. Charlotte was dealing with issues of her own just then, and Paul could still remember her vacant stare as he greeted her all those weeks ago. They hadn’t spoken since. He hoped she was doing alright. She probably wasn’t. (Charlotte liked cats too, she’d knitted plenty of jumpers with cats embroidered on them. She’d been wearing one the day Paul had disappeared.)
He’d lost Ted completely. He’d watched the life fade from those shocked brown eyes, seen the dark splatters of crimson across the floor, dripping steadily down uneven, gaping wounds. He’d seen the crazed smiles of those girls be painted red, just watched and done nothing. If Ted had done nothing when Paul tried to leave, if Ted hadn’t been such a sleazeball to the very end, maybe he’d still be alive. Maybe Paul would’ve still had a chance at fixing himself completely.
But he was Ted, and ‘sleazeball’ was his middle name. It wasn’t even an insult anymore, just a fact– to Ted himself, it was something to be proud of, a badge he wore with a smarmy grin. Paul wasn’t sure anymore if they’d ever truly been friends.
Back when they worked at CCRP, Ted had occasionally mentioned a brother. ‘Little Petey’, he called him. Paul wondered how old the kid was. No matter the age, ‘Petey’ had lost a brother. And that was Paul’s fault as much as it was Ted’s.
No matter the circumstances, had he not tried to leave, Ted wouldn’t have barked. Ted wouldn’t have been stabbed , skin squelching gruesomely as his bloodied, slimy intestines slid out of the slices in his stomach. Ted would still be alive. The weight of his life, of his death , was on Paul’s shoulders, and always would be. Perhaps he deserved to be punished.
There was something satisfying about the ache in his own stomach. The reassurance that his own was still intact, that he was empty, unbothered, that she wasn’t there touching him. The promise that he hadn’t been eating gunk made for an animal. The familiarity of a well-deserved punishment that, for once, was left to his control. It was freeing, in a way.
Paul wanted to eat. He wanted to cry. He wanted to tear off his skin and scream at the heavens and curse the world for ever letting this happen. He wanted to go back, back to before that godawful night, back to before Ted disappeared in the first place. Back before CCRP, back before high school, back before Spot.
…Back before Emma?
He sighed, tucking his knees closer into his chest. He loved Emma, and she loved him, but she couldn’t be there all the time. Paul was supposed to be at therapy, but the thought of discussing what had happened made him feel even more nauseous than he had been already. There was no way to put the blur of memories, the cacophony of screaming voices, the alternating numbness and oversensation, the guilt that followed him like the plague, the terror that she could return one day, the feeling of non-existent hands tracing gently across places they had no right to be touching, into words. He was tired. He should sleep. He should eat. Emma would want him to eat.
Paul took one last glance at the half-eaten breakfast bar he held in a vice grip, knuckles white against the shiny wrapper. He hesitated, worrying at his lip anxiously as his stomach continued to churn, then lifted it to his lips…
And left that half-eaten breakfast bar on the table as he trudged back up to his room, ready to envelop himself back into a useless cocoon of too-heavy blankets and too-soft cushions, something inside of him twinging painfully as he went.